“Sam, you Devil!” she smiles. “The usual?”

I’ve taught them Handel.

“It’s boom or bust time now, me droogs!”

“Older than its star,” she answers.

“Time travel?” “It’s limited: My future consciousness displaced to my body in the past,” she says.

“Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?”

I enter the supervillain’s kitchen. Stood nose to the floor is a 1950 A-bomb.

“No wonder we’re dead in space!”